AN: Because if Cato was a bigger douchebag… Consider this a 'what if' moment or a 'deleted concept.'
Silver
The moon is slimmer than an eyelash, winking above me in the dark night. I walk down the stairs, trying not to fall—the dress is bunching itself about my legs, keeping me from righting myself properly. It's also been a long while since I've used them.
There's no sound within the whole place.
I'm sitting now, with only the rattle of silverware, gleaming in the candlelight with all the luster of its namesake. The utensils may even be made out of it.
He doesn't talk to me, only watching me carefully.
I wonder why he's allowing me so close to knives and forks. He's not worried that I'll attack him? Or kill myself? He probably thinks me too weak by now.
And he's right.
I wouldn't do it. Not at this point.
I place a hand upon my stomach.
"You need to eat."
"I don't want to."
"You'll kill the baby."
"And so will you."
He waves my comment dismissively. "I'm not the one bearing it. You need to eat, otherwise it won't grow."
"I don't want it to grow! The child will be thrown into the arena!"
My captor drinks red from a glass, and I fear it. I don't recall him coming to me drunk, none that I'm aware of—he's violent all the time—but it looks too much like blood sloshing itself around in it.
"An abortion is unthinkable."
"I never said I wanted it aborted!" I honestly don't. I just don't want it. I don't want this little one created out of heated rage and abuse. I don't want it born into this world because it won't be able to handle the ridicule, the dictatorship of it all.
"Then eat."
I don't move to pick up the fork and knife. It'll too be tempting to stab out his eyes.
"Or I'll shove the food down your throat."
He'll do it too. He almost did it the last time in the room.
So I consume the food he's placed in front of me, my stomach rumbling.
He laughs, and I cringe at the sound, harder than silver in the dense air.